Understandable Insanity
by Ms. Selly
Summary: Harry Potter hates Draco Malfoy. Malfoy certainly feels the same. No one ever said you had to actually like someone to snog them, right? SLASH
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter I**

Draco leaned against the stands, squinting up through the drizzling rain. He wasn't sure what had led him out here, to stand in the rain without a cloak. His hair, he was sure, would begin to frizz, and then he would need to retire to the dormitories so he could set it right. Frizzy hair was so undignified. Here he was, standing outside the Quidditch pitch, alone. He had left Crabbe and Goyle quietly, leaving the Slytherin table before lunch had ended. His friends didn't notice, probably because they were used to grand exits from Draco Malfoy, a witty barb tossed to their adoration, a flourish, a swirling cloak. But he had left without a word, slipping away to somewhere unknown.

That somewhere turned out to be the Quidditch pitch, where, he had discovered upon arriving, the Gryffindor team was holding practice. He watched the red blurs zipping throughout the stadium, and was able to pick out Potter in an instant. He looked no different than the other blurs at first, but his position was unique. He hovered above the rest, mostly stationary while the others raced beneath him. That's how it always was, wasn't it? Saint Potter, so much better than the rest of them.

Then Potter dove, becoming more like a red streak in the hazy sky, and Draco felt a stab of jealousy. Why was he better? He flew in ways Draco knew he never could, and it didn't make sense. Draco had the best brooms money could buy, the nicest and most fashionable robes, the highest quality quills and cauldrons, the fanciest treats, not to mention some of the purest blood in England. But Harry Potter was always better. Harry Potter was a hero. Harry Potter led the Gryffindor Quidditch team to victory again and again. Harry Potter wore plain, pedestrian robes and had messy hair and spots on his face. But all the girls, even the Slytherin girls, giggled and whispered about gorgeous Harry Potter and his lovely, perfect, glowing, beautiful, romantic green eyes. Girls whispered about Draco, his white-blonde hair and smooth, pale complexion, but not the same way they whispered about Potter.

And what had Potter ever done? Saved the world, they said. Ridiculous. His head was so hard, not even a Killing Curse could puncture it. A spell bounced off his forehead before he could talk. Big hero. Since then, Harry Potter had saved the world from Voldemort loads of times; it was practically an annual event. But it wasn't as if Saint Potter did it all on his own. Draco could save the world too, if he had a super-smart witch to help him, plus a dumb, but loyal, lummox who would sacrifice himself to let Draco get a little bit further. Really, Harry Potter hadn't done one single thing to deserve praise- besides play a mean game of Quidditch.

Draco Malfoy hated Harry Potter more than words could possibly say. He was always the best. The teachers all took his side- except Professor Snape, of course, who remained thankfully immune to Potter's charms. And then there was Quidditch. The one thing Draco had beensure he could excel at. He had been flying around the Manor, after all, since he could first hold a broomstick. Lucius bought him the most expensive broom on the market; there would be no child-sized brooms for the Malfoy heir. Draco would learn to ride on the fastest, strongest model available. He fell off countless times, and had to be treated by dozens of mediwizards for fractures, broken bones, torn ligaments- every injury imaginable. All of them told Lucius it was insanity. No child, especially not a child as slight as little Draco Malfoy, could handle a full-sized, professional broom. Lucius offered them only haughty stares. Malfoys did not do anything halfway. And Draco, knowing that this would be something to at last impress his stone-cold father, succeeded. He rode his broom, and Lucius--cruel, cold-hearted Lucius Malfoy--told his son that he was proud of him.

Draco was supposed to be a Quidditch star. His father would come to every game and watch while Draco dominated the pitch. He had vivid dreams of winning the Quidditch Cup as far back as he could remember. When he went to Hogwarts, he was sure all his dreams would become reality. Then there was Harry Potter. Harry "Youngest Player in a Century" Potter, the Boy Who Lived To Make Draco's Life Miserable. But Draco convinced himself it was all right. Potter was just getting special attention because he was a hero. Just wait until next year. Then Draco would show how pampered and undeserving Harry Potter was. It didn't work out like that.

The one thing that Draco was sure he could do, the one thing that made Lucius Malfoy proud of his son, became Harry Potter's domain. Draco still remembered the first time he was defeated in a Quidditch match by Potter. It had stung as much as falling off his broom as a child had, but it all seemed so surreal. He tramped off the field, and didn't even bother changing out of his uniform before he went to go see his father, who he knew had been in the stands. Lucius Malfoy had been involved in a conversation with an unhealthy looking man, probably another one of the governors. He finished his conversation, then turned, and marched away from the pitch without a single glance at his heartbroken son. Malfoys did not accept failure.

The same thing happened again and again. Draco never lost his spirit, even though Lucius stopped coming. He fought as hard as he could, sometimes resorting to trickery and blatant cheating, because sometimes he dreamt that he won. He triumphed over stupid Harry Potter, and as he took a victory lap around the pitch, he spotted his father sitting in the stands, cheering. But, as he had discovered throughout his life, Draco's dreams never came true. He was good player, even exceptional. But, as it always was when it came to Harry Potter, he just wasn't good enough.

Draco looked up, startled, as the Gryffindors started to move in his direction. Draco knew he should move. If any of them spotted him standing there, they would be livid. Accuse him of spying, no doubt. Idiots. Why would he spy? Their strategies were always the same. But they wouldn't even consider the possibility that, for once, Draco Malfoy really was just out for a quiet stroll and wasn't up to anything at all. They would accuse him of sneaking around, which was of course laughable. Some things were beneath him, after all. Occasionally he crept, and he had been known to slink, but he did not sneak. He might enlighten them to that fact, but they would not, of course, grasp the concept. Literal-minded Gryffindors would never understand the nuances of Malfoy life.

The team landed, and Harry Potter, righteous hero and team captain that he was, headed straight for Draco. His hair was sticking up in all sorts of directions, in that "devil-may-care-wind-blown-I-just-got-off-my-broomstick" way that Draco knew girls swooned over.

"What are you doing here?" He sounded aggressive. Big, bad Potter. He didn't scare Draco, if that was his intent. Draco let a lazy smile play across his face.

"What am I doing here? Brilliantly original of you, Potter." Potter's face turned almost as red as his uniform, and Draco had to stifle a laugh. It was so easy to get under his skin, it borderedon pitiful.

"Shut up, Malfoy."

"Oh, another burning remark from the Boy Who Lived. How do you do it, Potter?"

"You were spying on our practice." The play unfolded just as Draco had pictured it.

"Don't flatter yourself. Did the possibility that I was just taking a walk ever occur to you?"

"It's raining," Harry said. Draco rolled his eyes, and then applauded sarcastically.

"Oh, bravo, Potter. It is _indeed_ raining. I'll contact St. Mungo's at once to let them know that you've completely recovered from having your brain addled by the Dark Lord." Potter flushed an even deeper shade of crimson.

"Sod off."

"You cut me to the quick, Potter, you really do. How shall I ever respond to that gem? Congratulations, you've rendered me speechless."

"Not very speechless," Katie Bell commented, coming up behind Potter, flanked by the majority of the team. Draco flicked his eyes to her then smiled, spreading his arms.

"Look at this, the Potter gang. Whenever our beloved hero starts to get into a tight spot, every Gryffindor present assembles to protect him. Amazing, that. Please, tell me your secret, Potter. I want my own squadron of sycophants, too."

"You are such an arse." Potter looked disgusted and about ready to back down, but Draco kept pushing.

"No, actually, I'm charismatically wicked. If I were an arse, I'd look more like you." The Gryffindor Quidditch team erupted in protest, and Draco grinned to himself. Loud, brash Gryffindors, wearing their emotions on their sleeves as always. They never had managed to comprehend the benefits of not letting your every thought cross your face.

"You know what you are, Malfoy?" Draco knew it was a rhetorical question, but he jumped in to answer before Potter had the chance to go on.

"Of course I do, Potter. Handsome, witty, brilliant, godlike, radiant, ravishing, resplendent, majestic, noble, dignified… I'm quite familiar with my own virtues, thank you very much"

Harry ignored him. "Everyone says you're a snake. But you're not." Draco started to respond, but Potter continued quickly. "You're not even a snake. You're a worm. You squirm around and blame everyone else for things you can't do. You're nasty for no reason, because you have nothing else going for you. And I don't know why I even bother talking to you, because you're below my notice." Ouch. Draco tensed, doing everything he knew to keep the pain from showing on his face. That hurt. He hadn't believed it really possible, but Potter had really wounded him.

Fine. If Potter wanted to play rough, Draco was going to play rough, too.

"Have you finished?" He forced himself to drawl the words, and arched a single eyebrow to better convey his derision. "Is it my turn now? Do you want to know what _you_ are, Potter? Or maybe I should start with what you're not. You're not a hero. You've never done anything extraordinary, and you're only famous- people only _like_ you- because you've got a stupid scar on your mind-numbingly stupid forehead. And your mudblood mother-"

"Don't you _dare _talk about my mother, Malfoy." Potter's teeth were clenched.

"Why not?" Draco sneered at him. "You talk about mine."

"I loved my mother."

"You never _knew _your mother," he spat with all the venom he could muster.

At that point, saintly Harry Potter, the hero of the wizarding world, dove at him, apparently furious to the point of forgetting about his wand. Draco, who had cleverly remained calm and level-headed, was not. He pulled it out of his pocket as quickly as he could, but not quickly enough. He was tackled, and felt the entire weight of the taller boy on top of him. Luckily, Draco still remained somewhat in control of his faculties. While Potter threw wild, furious punches, Draco focused on wriggling his way out of his rival's grip. He finally succeeded, and, after a split-second of judging the situation, took off running away from pitch, aiming a Stupefy over his shoulder without really looking.

As he ran, he did a quick check of his injuries. He had been successfully punched a few times, but his constant movement had saved him from the majority of Potter's jabs. He had been grazed several times, and he knew that he would bruise. He always bruised easily. It was, he supposed, one of the curses of his pale beauty. Along with needing to constantly beat enamoured females back. However, the pain from Potter's weight and pummelling mixed with the soreness in his lungs kept him from fully enjoying his own wit. Trust Potter to ruin everything.

---

Harry wasn't sure of what he was seeing at first. He had just glanced down to see how the new flight pattern they were trying out was working, when his eye was drawn to something light coloured at the edge of the pitch. With the dripping rain making the ground damp and the sky dark, it was the only light thing around, and it caught his attention. He squinted at it, and wrinkled his nose. It seemed to be a person, but he was too high up to identify them. Who would be down on the ground during team practice? He had deliberately scheduled it to begin straight after lunch in order to cut down on gawkers. Colin Creevey, perhaps? But no, Colin had pretty much given up on coming to practices.

He was a little bit bored, and quite curious, so he took adive. As he sped earthwards, he glanced over at the spot where he had seen the light-haired figure. It was Draco Malfoy. The Slytherin boy wasn't even wearing a cloak. Harry almost landed right there to go and interrogate him, but thought better of it, and pulled out of the dive. As he spiralled back up into the sky, his mind worked furiously. What would Malfoy be doing watching their practice? Spying, no doubt, but then why did he appear to be paying so little attention to the team? It didn't matter, really. This was Draco Malfoy he was thinking about, after all, a despicable and venomous boy who didn't care about anyone but himself. And to think that this was the first future classmate he had met when he was still learning about the world he never knew he belonged to.

Harry thought about _that_ sometimes. What would have happened if he had accepted Malfoy's offer of friendship? If he had been more worried, less himself, and he had taken the hand of another slight boy, hair as pale as his was dark. Would he have discovered who Malfoy really was, or would he have become a mindless lackey like Crabbe or Goyle? And if he did discover how monstrous his fellow first-year could be…would he be able to escape his grasp? Harry couldn't help but compare Malfoy to Voldemort sometimes. Two cool and cruel leaders with a dedicated and controlled circle of followers. He didn't think that Malfoy was quite to the Dark Lord level yet…but he had no doubt that it was a distinct possibility in the future.

Harry hated Draco Malfoy. He was contrary to everything Harry cared about. He was an elitist snob with a nasty streak who couldn't care less who he hurt. Harry could barely stand it when Lavender and Parvati started giggling about his "soulful stormy eyes" when they burrowed into armchairs on one side of the common room. How anyone could be attracted to someone so rotten was beyond him. Sure, Malfoy was decent looking, he supposed, but there was no way to ignore how spiteful he was. Not to mention his family. Lucius Malfoy was pretty much the Death Eater poster-boy: wealthy, sadistic, influential and malicious. And Narcissa, though Harry had never actually spoken to her, seemed to be no better.

Practice was winding down, and Harry landed quickly, in case Malfoy tried to run off. The wind ruffled back his on the way down and, as he landed, he hopped off his broom and headed for the other boy.

"What are you doing here?" Malfoy's lips spread into a mocking smile, and Harry knew he was in for it.

Sure enough, Draco began the torrent of insults, jabbing at everything from Harry's mother to his encounters with Voldemort.

Finally Harry couldn't bear it any longer, and snapped, "Everyone says you're a snake. But you're not." Malfoy was about to interrupt again, but Harry pushed on, anger burning inside him. "You're not even a snake. You're a worm. You squirm around and blame everyone else for things you can't do. You're nasty for no reason, because you have nothing else going for you. And I don't know why I even bother talking to you, because you're below my notice."

As soon as he finished saying it, he began to regret it. He hated Malfoy, hated him down to every drop of his prized pure blood, but that was rather harsh, even for his (second) biggest enemy. It might have just been the haze of the rain, but Harry thought he saw Malfoy tense, stand a little straighter.

"Have you finished? Is it my turn now? Do you want to know what _you_ are, Potter? Or maybe I should start with what you're not. You're not a hero. You've never done anything extraordinary, and you're only famous- no- people only _like_ you because you've got a stupid scar on your mind-numbingly stupid forehead. And your mudblood mother-"

"Don't you dare talk about my mother, Malfoy." The anger was getting a lot hotter, and Harry clenched his teeth and fists to try and keep control on himself.

"Why not?" Malfoy sneered at him, and Harry didn't know if he had ever hated the other boy as much as he did at that very moment. "You talk about mine."

"I loved my mother."

"You never _knew _your mother."

That was the final straw. Harry flung himself at Malfoy, saw the blonde reaching into his pocket for his wand, but tackled him before he was able to use it. Blood surged and pumped through him, making his ear pound. He tried to hit Malfoy, to bash in his stupid face, to teach him to think he could talk that way to people. But he was so angry he could hardly see straight, and Malfoy was small and nimble. He squirmed away from Harry's fists and somehow managed to escape his grip.

"Stupefy!" Harry heard a shout, and scrambled to his feet just in time to see Angelina fall and Malfoy racing down the path. The rest of the Gryffindors were moving to Angelina, so Harry sprinted after Malfoy. His feet slipped in the forming mud and puddles on the path, and he skidded on the wet grass, but he kept going. Malfoy was fairly far in the distance, but he would be slowing soon. He had been running longer, and Harry knew that at least a few of his hits had to have connected. His predictions proved correct when Malfoy darted off the main path, toward a small enclosure sometimes used to store brooms and equipment not currently being used for Quidditch. So, he thought he could hide in there.

Harry fumbled in the pocket of his Quidditch robes for his wand, bumping his leather arm-guards against the fabric. He grasped it finally, fingers closing around the warm and familiar wood. He had almost reached the broom shed now, and drew his wand cautiously. He slowed to a walk and went carefully up the path. The wooden door was closed, and Harry opened it as slowly as possible. It barely squeaked, and he entered otherwise silently.

Malfoy was leaning up against the back wall between two old broomsticks, eyes shut and panting heavily. A bruise was already forming on his right cheekbone, and Harry had never seen him looking so fragile. The sight did not move him, however, and, without waiting for his rival to open his eyes, Harry shot forward and pinned Malfoy to the wall with an arm across his chest. Malfoy gasped in pain and his eyes snapped open. He continued to breathe heavily, and stared at Harry. With his head ducked partially forward, some strands of damp blonde hair hung in front of his raging eyes, and the usually collected boy looked positively feral in the shadows. Harry could feel his thin chest moving rapidly next to his arm.

"What're you going to do now, Potter?" Malfoy spat out his last name as though it was the foulest curse he could imagine. Harry glared at him and wondered if his eyes were expressing as much hatred as Malfoy's were. He certainly felt it, but the look Malfoy was giving him was downright evil, and Harry wasn't sure if he was capable of expressing emotion that deep with only the power of his eyes.

"I hate you." Harry could think of nothing else to say, and inched closer. "I hate you so much."

"My sentiments exactly," Malfoy hissed. Harry was closer than he thought he had ever been to Draco Malfoy…so close he could smell him. He smelt--there was no way Harry could describe it besides "expensive." Harry wondered if it was some ridiculously pricy cologne'Eau de Affluence'?) or if it was just a natural odour secreted by the very wealthy. He could almost smell the lingering remnants of pumpkin juice on Malfoy's breath. He forgot where he was for a moment, lost in his sensory exploration, until Malfoy cleared his throat nastily.

"As much as I would love to be pinned against a wall in a musty old broom shed by the great Harry Potter all afternoon, I do, unfortunately, have other obligations, such as Ancient Runes. So if you're going to hex me, which I assume is your intention, do get on with it."

Harry stared at Malfoy and marvelled. How did he do it? No matter what the situation, he always had something biting to say. Perhaps it was a skill obtained through the Dark Arts, or maybe it was a Malfoy family trait. The few times Harry had met Lucius, the elder Malfoy had been just as sardonic as his son. He watched, and Malfoy's expectant expression morphed as he rolled his eyes.

"Can't think of anything nasty, can you? There are quite a few lovely ones I could recommend, but somehow it doesn't seem appropriate to the situation." He paused, apparently considering something for a few moments. He leaned forward, pressing against Harry's arm. "I thought you Gryffindors were supposed to be brave."

"What?" Harry inched closer so he could put more weight into holding Malfoy back.

"The traits that stupid hat constantly spouts off. Ravenclaws are clever, Hufflepuffs are determined, Slytherins are dead sexy, and Gryffindors are brave."

"Yeah, I guess." Harry didn't see where this was all going. It seemed that was exactly the response Malfoy was hoping for, because his entire face lit up with fiendish delight.

"So is this a good example of the famed Gryffindor courage? Attacking an innocent bystander, chasing him to a secluded place, and holding him down so you can have your nasty way with him?"

"Shut up, Malfoy." Harry was suddenly very aware that he could feel Malfoy's heart beating against his arm, and that it was very stuffy inside the tiny shack. He was starting to feel slightly light-headed. He was so close to him, so very close to this thing he hated. Hated him. Hated, hated, hate, sate. Sate the burning in the pit of his stomach that might have been hatred, but might not have been.

"Make me," Malfoy sneered. And Harry did. Kissed him soundly, and though Draco's eyes widened in horror and surprise, after a moment or two he let them flutter closed. _Why not?_ He thought. _Might as well take the opportunity._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II**

Potter pulled away abruptly, and, at about the same time, Draco's senses returned to him. He remained leaning against the wall where he had been pressed, unable to inspire himself to move, staring in utter horror at the other boy. To his credit, Harry Potter seemed to be having a fit of some kind.

"What did you do that for?" The Great Hero demanded. Draco didn't even bother trying to conceal his incredulity.

"What did _I_-? _You kissed_ _me_. _You _kissed, you-oh god." Draco suddenly felt very nauseous, and let his head fall backwards and smack against the wall. "I'm contaminated now. I'm probably going to break out in god only knows what! Am I turning colors? Why am I bothering asking you? You, you-_you_." For once, his vast array of insults failed him and he felt completely deserted. What could he trust if not his own biting wit? "Is this some new plan of yours? Are you going to snog me into submission? Disgust me to death?"

"What, you think I'm not disgusted?" Potter's voice sounded high and rather hysterical, and he seemed to be doing everything possible to avoid looking at Draco. He kept balling his hands into fists, and then shaking them out again. His left eye also seemed to be twitching slightly, but Draco had no sympathy for the Mad Snogger.

"I don't care! You kissed me, you dreadful, disturbed, _perverted_-"

"Shut up," Potter whispered urgently, eyes going wide. "Someone's going past. If they find us in here, they might think-"

"What? That we've been snogging in the broom shed? Hate to break it to you, Potter, but-"

"Shh!" Potter hushed him frantically again, and Draco reluctantly obeyed. He despised Harry Potter, and would love to reveal to the whole school that Harry Potter, in addition to saving all of wizardkind, liked to jump poor, unsuspecting Slytherins inside dusty broom sheds. But there _was_ the small matter of his involvement in the event. The tale really didn't work if the victim wasn't present, and Draco was not about to announce to the whole school that he personally had been kissed by Harry Potter. He would probably be assassinated in the Great Hall by a member of the Potter fan club gone stark-raving mad with grief that she hadn't been the one to taste Potter's lips. A shudder passed through his body. It was even more disgusting when he thought of it like that.

Not to mention the fact that he would probably be excommunicated from Slytherin, and left with no one to boss around. He would be an outcast in Hogwarts, possibly be expelled for total indecency, and end up living in the woods, becoming hairy and dirty, and communicating through a series of vaguely word-like grunts like that disturbingly large grounds-keeper. That thought was especially painful, so he kept his mouth shut until the voices and footsteps faded.

Potter gave a massive sigh of relief, and Draco, sure the other students were safely out of earshot, rounded on him again.

"Is this some kind of kink with you? Does pummeling and chasing defenseless people turn you on? I don't want to have anything to do with your sadomasochistic urges!"

"Defenseless? Like you're such a push-over, Malfoy. And I don't even know what that is!"

"Sadomasochism," Draco repeated, pronouncing each syllable distinctly enough that even a rock-brained idiot like Harry Potter should be able to understand it. "S and M. Sadist and masochist. Dominant and submissive. The sexual pleasure in giving and receiving pain. I will not be a part of your kinky bondage! Besides, it couldn't work because I'm not a masochist, and then we'd have two sadists, and be all S and no M which really defeats the purpose." Potter gawked and Draco rolled his eyes. "Come on. Don't try to play dumb with me. I've heard all about those crazed Gryffindor orgies." Potter looked even more disturbed. "Cut out the innocence act, you don't live in a giant phallic symbol without having some…issues."

Potter looked to be attempting to form words and failing miserably at it. Draco sighed, feeling very put-upon, and looked around.

"God, when was the last time someone dusted this place? It's horrid in here."

"You're thinking about _dust_ at a time like this?" Potter's horror was mostly replaced by disbelief, and he bit his lip. "Don't blame me for all of this."

"Why not? You _are_ to blame for all this. You chased me, pinned me against the wall, and kissed me. What twisted universe do you live in where this is not your fault?"

"Look, I might have--" Potter struggled to say the words "--kissed you, a bit."

"A bit?" Draco said in disbelief, folding his arms across his chest. Potter ran a hand through his hair and looked away.

"All right, maybe a lot. But you…you kissed me back."

"Means nothing," Draco scoffed. "I'm a teenage boy. Raging hormones and all that. I'd probably kiss Professor Snape back." He considered this for a moment and his face contorted with disgust. "Ugh, why did I even say that? He doesn't wash his hair."

"Plus, he's a _man_," Potter cleverly pointed out. Draco shrugged.

"It happens."

"You don't care that you're talking about kissing a man?"

"Not particularly. Why, do you?" Potter looked away, and Draco laughed in triumph. "So _that's_ what this is all about. You don't like the idea of not being the Great Heterosexual Hero anymore."

"Shut up."

"No, really, it's just too precious. You should be more open-minded."

"Open-minded? _Open-minded_? _You_ are telling _me_ to be more 'open-minded'? You're the biggest bigot I've ever met." Draco shrugged.

"Yes, but I am Draco Malfoy, fiendishly attractive creator of brilliantly evil plans. You're the Boy-Who-Lived. It's your job to be loving, and embracing, and all that wimpy good-side rot."

"You have no right to criticize me-"

"Who ever told you I needed a right? I am what I am. It's not my fault; it's just the way things worked out. And despite what you may want to believe, it's also not my fault that you don't fancy girls."

"I _do_ fancy girls," Potter stubbornly insisted. Draco arched his eyebrows at him.

"Oh, obviously."

"This was just…momentary insanity. I hate you."

"And I hate you. That said, want to do it again?"

"What!" Draco leaned back against the wall again, and made a show of picking some mud from under his nails.

"You heard me. Want to do it again?"

"Do _what_ exactly?"

"I would think that abundantly obvious." Potter put a hand to his temple and began shaking his head.

"You did not just say that. You could not have said that. Either I'm having the worst nightmare of my life or you have gone completely mental."

"Look Potter, I don't like this anymore than you do. But I asked you a very simple question: do you want to kiss me again?" Harry Potter stopped shaking his head, and looked cautiously at Draco through his fingers. He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. He opened his eyes again, and Draco could see something that looked a good deal like pain in them.

"Yes."

"Well then, what are you doing all the way over there?" Potter's eyes expanded, but Draco kept his expression uninterested. Hero Potter struggled, then, ever so slowly, he closed the distance between them. They stood once again; Draco leaning nonchalantly against the wall with Harry Potter standing just inside his personal space, looking uncomfortable. Potter looked helplessly at Draco, who remained blank. Resigning himself to the fact that Draco was not going to make the first move, Harry leaned slowly towards him, placing a hand on the wall to brace himself.

Draco waited until Potter was only centimeters away, eyes closing slowly, before he smoothly slid to his left, ducking under Harry's arm. The sidestep was completely unexpected and Harry very nearly got a mouthful of splintery wall. Luckily, he stopped himself in time, and turned around quickly, eyes once again wide with confusion. Draco looked at him levelly for a moment, then scoffed.

"You must be completely daft. You really thought I was going to allow you to kiss me? Sickening. You're even more of an idiot than I imagined, and that, let me tell you, is _quite_ an accomplishment." Harry mouthed wordlessly, looking totally baffled by the change in events. Draco arched his eyebrows and pulled a grotesquely "sympathetic" face. "What? Did I hurt your precious little feelings? Too bad. I would _never _touch you willingly." With one last derisive sniff, he turned to leave. He was just starting to pull the door open when he heard scuffling behind him. Potter's hand connected with the door at the height of its momentum, slamming it shut so hard that particles of dust were shaken loose from the roof.

Draco turned around to make a cutting remark; he had one set and ready for deployment. But once again, he never got so far. Draco Malfoy found himself kissing Harry Potter (rather enthusiastically) for the second time that afternoon. This was on its way to becoming a very bad habit. He allowed himself to continue in the kissing for only a minute or two before he summoned the presence of mind and bodily control to shove the impudent Gryffindor off him.

"What was that?" He demanded, incensed. Potter reached up to run a finger over his own lips, as though wondering how they had betrayed him so.

"I dunno."

"You 'dunno.' Fantastic. I'm being molested by a hero who can't even use proper English."

"I am not molesting you! I don't even _like_ you!"

"Are you mad? Did it somehow escape your notice that you've spent a decent part of your afternoon kissing me?"

"Doesn't mean I like you. I hate you."

"The feeling's mutual. So, this need for man-love, did it come all at once in a rush, or was it more of a slow, steady decline into-"

"For the last time, I do _not_ like boys."

"Oh, so it's just me then. What a comforting thought; that makes me feel _so_ much better." Harry shook his head with an exasperated sigh.

"That's not what I meant." Draco crossed his arms protectively across his chest and looked at Harry suspiciously. One never knew when the Mad Snogger might strike again, it was best to remain on guard.

"No? What did you mean, then?" Harry gave him a searching look, as though he was trying to find an answer reflected in Draco's eyes. Finally, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"I don't know."

"Brilliant. You do realize that no one can ever know about this?" Harry snorted.

"This? What _is_ this?"

"I--" Draco realized in a rush that, for the second time today, he couldn't think of anything witty to say. It was a disturbing feeling. He felt strangely empty. If he couldn't fire off nasty insults to Potter, a good deal of his arsenal would be gone. He'd be left with merely gloating and being gorgeous. "I don't know."

"Whatever it is, it has to stop," Harry interjected. Draco stared at him as though Potter had just said something along the lines of 'Breathing is generally advisable' or 'Draco Malfoy, you are rather good-looking.' Potter quailed slightly under Draco's incredulous gaze, turning away.

"What we need--" it was obvious Draco was going to have to be the brains of this operation as well "--is a plan. No, not a plan. A plot! A fiendish plot."

"You are tot-"

"Shut up for half a second, Potter. Friendly tip: inhale through those nifty little openings above your mouth."

"I don't need you to tell me how to _breathe_, Malfoy."

"Well, better safe than sorry. Though in your case…" Draco shut his eyes and reprimanded himself firmly. "No. Don't get involved with the moron. You have to plot."

"I'm not a-"

"By Merlin's staff, Potter! Which part of 'shut up' is causing so much confusion with you?" Potter still looked very indignant, but he cleverly chose to sulk rather than interrupt Draco again. It was probably the smartest thing Potter had done all day, possibly in his entire life. Draco needed silence if he was going to come up with a fiendish plot.

-----

Harry watched Draco cautiously. The disturbing urges to grab him and flatten him against the wall had not yet subsided, and he thought it would be in the best interest of Malfoy, himself, and the wizarding world in general if he kept his distance.

"I've got it!" _About time_, Harry though treacherously, then felt sorry, then angry again. Why should he feel sorry? He had nothing to be sorry about. If Malfoy hadn't been such a bother, interrupting practice, dragging him out here, everything would be fine. Everything would be how it was supposed to be. Because the way things were, it was obvious that something in the cosmic plan had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

Malfoy was still talking, gesturing animatedly and making various fiendish facial expressions, but Harry had already tuned him out. Why? It had been haunting him this entire afternoon. Thing s had been going fine. Things were great. Quidditch was going well, he hadn't had mounds of homework waiting for him to return to the Tower; he was happy with his life. Then he had been overcome by that strange compulsion, and he couldn't seem to stop himself. As kisses go, he had to admit it hadn't been bad. Not bad at all. But he had been hit with the horrible realization that those were Draco Malfoy's lips touching his own, and Draco Malfoy's chest he was leaning into, and Draco Malfoy's shoulder he was gripping, and his whole world crumbled into dust at his still-booted feet.

Harry hated Draco Malfoy. He still hated him. Even after whatever it was happened, he could still feel the familiar hate struggling inside. But there was something different about it. It wasn't as hot, or sharp. It was duller, warmer somehow. Almost…affectionate. Affectionate hatred was a peculiar concept, even for a boy with as peculiar a life as Harry. He still couldn't stand the thought of Malfoy, of his family, of his nasty words and superior stares. But standing here, looking at Malfoy, he didn't feel so negative. The actual, flesh and pureblood Malfoy standing in the broom shed with him, prattling on about some 'fiendish plot' he was obviously very proud of, instilled him with nothing more than slight annoyance. And Harry hated that.

It was one of the constants of his world. Hermione and Ron would always be there for him, Voldemort would always fall back to shadow, the Dursleys would always be odious, and he would always hate Draco Malfoy. This boy was…_a boy_. Harry realized that he had never thought of him like that before. In his mind, Malfoy had always been a creature of malevolent stature, immediately visible in any crowd. But Malfoy was shorter than Harry. As simple and obvious as that fact was, Harry had never noticed before. Malfoy was a Death Eater's son, a Death Eater in training, a bratty bigot, a snob. And a person. He was shorter than Harry, he existed in the same room, the same life. He was real. _Of course he's real_, some part of Harry snapped, _he's a pain in your arse._ _That's all he's ever been to you,_ a quieter, stranger part of Harry murmured back, _a character. A symbol. He's not really so different from you, is he?_

Was he? He was. He was very, very different from Harry. In all the ways that mattered, Malfoy and Harry were opposites. Even in the ways that didn't matter, the only similarity was age. And that was hardly a foundation for reconciliation, for a relationship. _Hang on. Relationship?_

"-and though I'll accept it might be difficult to convince Madame Hooch, I still think it's our best option. So? Potter?" Harry snapped back to focus. Malfoy was watching him, eyebrows arched expectantly. He did that a lot, Harry noted. And his expression always perfectly conveyed his message. How did he manage it? Did he practice on unsuspecting first years in the Slytherin common room?

"I suddenly think I know why I always beat you." Malfoy bristled noticeably. He sneered, unsurprisingly.

"Bravo, Potter. Another epiphany for you? What could it be?" He screwed up his face and squinted, which Harry recognized as a very unflattering imitation of himself. "'Because good will always triumph over evil goons like you, Draco'?"

"No." Harry smiled. "Because your fiendish plots stink." Malfoy's mouth fell open into an expression of abject horror.

"What? You-you-you-" He snapped his mouth shut and sniffed mightily. "Well, you _obviously_ didn't understand the subtle nuances of my _brilliantly _fiendish plot."

"I probably didn't. I was only kidding." Malfoy looked slightly placated. Harry didn't know why his mouth was saying these strange things.

"Of course you were. Even a Gryffindor can see the genius of my plots."

"Yeah. I thought it was really good." _What are you saying, Harry? What's wrong with you?_ Malfoy preened.

"It _was _one of my better ones." Harry almost smiled at Malfoy's obvious glee at being praised, before remembering that this was _Malfoy_ he was watching.

"But wouldn't it just be easier if one of us left, then the other waited for a while, then left?" Malfoy dropped his self-satisfied cat grin and frowned.

"No, it wouldn't be, because, well, obviously…fiendish plots are not supposed to be 'easy'."

"Well," Harry suddenly was feeling very tired. It had, after all, been a very long and very stressful day. "Maybe you can save that plot for another time. I'm going to go to bed."

He left. And he grinned at both the cool, fresh air of the outdoors hitting his face, and the indignant open-mouthed expression he had glimpsed on Malfoy's face just before he turned away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter III**

Harry had been glaring absentmindedly across the Great Hall all throughout breakfast. It was only when Malfoy stuck his tongue out from between his teeth and gave Harry an exaggeratedly lascivious wink that he noticed Malfoy had been staring back at him. Flustered, Harry turned back to the Gryffindors and began to angrily spread jam over a previously forgotten slice of toast.

"Bloody git," Ron commented good-naturedly, dragging a tiny corner of bread crust through his left-over egg yolk.

"Yeah. Who?" He looked up. Hermione shot him a very suspicious look, but Ron was too involved with salvaging the tiniest remnants of breakfast to notice.

"Malfoy. Always staring at you like that; I know it would put me off my breakfast, he ever looked at me that way." Hermione made a derisive sound.

"Oh, please. As if anything short of oozing, dripping acromantula pus would be able to put you off of food." Ron eyed the long yellow strand of egg yolk that was descending from his fork and winced.

"Thanks for that, Hermione."

"What do you think he's up to, Harry?" She ignored Ron, nodding towards Malfoy. Harry glanced cautiously over his shoulder. Malfoy had turned back towards his fellow Slytherins. He was apparently telling a very funny story, possibly one of his infamous reenactments of Harry's worst moments. Harry felt a twinge in his stomach that wasn't entirely anger, and whipped his head back towards his friends. He looked up at Hermione, who was frowning at him.

"Uh, something nasty, I guess." He took a large bite of his toast, which had gone unpleasantly cool, and tried to look innocent.

"Yes." Hermione spoke slowly, and she was still looking at him as though she was trying to puzzle out a particularly difficult riddle. "Yes, that's likely." Ron--dear, dependably oblivious Ron--nodded as he scoured the table for any uneaten food.

"Yeah, definitely. Probably thinking up some evil plan to-"

"Plot," Harry corrected absentmindedly. He sighed and dropped his cold toast onto his plate. He inhaled deeply, and realized no one else had spoken. He raised his head slowly. Now even Ron was giving him an odd look. "I mean, I just, it's only—I'm not really hungry." He stood quickly, bumping into Neville, who promptly sloshed pumpkin juice all down his front.

"My gran just sent me these robes," Neville said with a defeated sigh. He sounded more forlorn than upset, and Harry bit his lip. He wanted to apologize to Neville, but he couldn't stay in the Great Hall any longer. Not with Hermione and Ron looking at him like that, not with Malfoy mere tables away. He had to get away, far away.

He muttered a quick "sorry," and took off. He heard the clatter of movement behind him, but he just quickened his stride. He managed to get out of the Great Hall, but someone grabbed his shoulder, and spun him around. It was Hermione, and the door banged shut behind her. She stared up at him, brow furrowed.

"What's wrong with you, Harry?"

"Nothing's wrong. I'm kind of tired, I think I'll just—"

"Don't you tell me nothing's wrong. We're your best friends, Harry. Don't you think Ron and I know when something is wrong?" She paused and considered her statement. "Well, maybe not Ron, but _I_ know. There's something going on you're not telling us."

"There's nothing, Hermione, honestly." Here he was, lying to one of his best friends. Not bending the truth, not avoiding it; he was telling a total lie right to her face. He couldn't stand what he'd been lowered to, and he turned to leave. Hermione grabbed the elbow of his robe, and walked in front of him, blocking his path.

"You've hardly spoken all morning, you scarcely touched your breakfast, you didn't even acknowledge poor Neville—"

"I said I was sorry."

"Barely." She took a step closer, rubbing his arm gently, trying to soothe him. He couldn't stand that look in her eyes. "Harry, you know you can tell me, don't you? You can always tell me." _Not this time, Hermione. Not now._ He looked away from her. "Does this have something to do with Malfoy?"

He nearly got whiplash, he looked back at her so quickly. Did she know? Could she know? Who told her? But no, she couldn't know. She didn't know. She was giving him the same puzzled expression. There wasn't a hint of the revulsion in her face and voice that he knew news of his "encounter" with Malfoy would bring.

"What makes you say that?" He tried to sound nonchalant, but from Hermione's expression, she could tell she'd hit a nerve.

"Just, the way he stared at you this morning. And you, you were staring at him too, weren't you?"

"'Course not." Harry looked up at the ceiling. Anything he could watch instead of her eyes. "He's just being Malfoy. Nothing's going on."

"But, Harry—"

"I don't feel well. That's all." He snapped, cutting her off. Her hand stopped its soothing rubbing. Slowly, she drew away from him. He dared a glance back at her. Her eyes were hard, her lips set in a tight line.

"Fine. Keep everything bottled up if you want. But I'm going to find out, Harry. You know that, don't you? Wouldn't you rather tell me yourself?" He said nothing. He didn't even trust himself to open his mouth. He would tell her. If he opened his mouth, it would all come spilling forth. _Yeah, Hermione, yesterday? When everyone thought I was off pummeling Malfoy…I was actually cuddling with him. You're fine with that, right? _ He couldn't bear even the thought of how she would look at him. He could picture her expression of horror, and disgust. _So, Hermione, I seem to be strongly attracted to Malfoy. You know the one, the smarmy brat who insults you at every opportunity. Do you think I should ask him to go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend? Do you think he'd say yes? _She would never be able to look at him the same way again. And he didn't want that. He wanted to forget it ever happened, to let things go back to normal.

She stood, waiting. Finally, she shook her head and turned. She paused one more time at the doors to the Great Hall, glancing back at him. Begging him to open up. Harry didn't move. He stared at the floor, biting his lip. She shook her head, and pulled the door open. Something snapped inside him. He had to tell her. He had to tell someone. He would implode if he didn't.

"Hermione, wait!" But he was too late. The door slid shut, his words lost behind the thick wood. He wanted to follow her, so he could apologize, and put things right. But he turned away, and headed towards the stairs.

As he made his way up the steps, he felt his heart sinking. What a perfect example of the horror his life had become. The urge to tell his best friend he was sorry was easily ignored, while the compulsion to kiss Draco Malfoy refused to be pushed aside. It was ridiculous.

"What's the matter, sonny?" A portrait of a kindly old wizard sitting amongst stacks of books twice his height gave him a sympathetic look. Harry glanced at him, and ducked his head.

"You know," the portrait called after him, "it always feels better to let someone in!"

_Not this time_, Harry thought bitterly. The momentary release of tension would be followed with horror and mockery for the rest of his school career, possibly the rest of his life. He didn't even want to think of what would happen if Witch Weekly got a hold of the story. Towering headlines loomed in his mind: "Teen Hero Trysts With Rival," "Harry Potter So Starved For Affection He Turns to Enemies For Love," "Potter's Psyche Deeply Twisted, No Hope for Normalcy, Experts Say."

It had been hard, that first year at Hogwarts. No one really understood how hard it had been for him. Everywhere he went, he was stared at. Not even his dormitory was a sanctuary from wide, curious eyes. It was full circle for a boy who grew up being ignored whenever possible. Now he was sought out. People knew who he was. That had been the strangest thing. People walking down Diagon Alley, students sitting in class or the Great Hall, parents on Platform 9 ¾; they all knew his name. They knew who he was and they knew who his parents were. People he had never seen before knew his life's story. He was in books, he was in headlines, he was a hero. And he had never known. He had grown up thinking of himself as an average boy. Not particularly bright, or handsome, or witty. Not memorable, except for being related to and living with the infamously large--and twice as infamously nasty--Dudley Dursley. Just Harry: a boy without a real family, or much of a life when it came to that.

Then he came to Hogwarts. And he wasn't Harry, Dudley's cousin, anymore. He was Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, Defeater of the Dark Lord, the triumphant hero, and Savior of the Wizarding World. It would have been a lot for anyone to deal with. But for Harry, who had lived his life in the curtains and now was suddenly thrust into the spotlight…it was hell. He was only eleven. He was supposed to think about classes, and making friends, and sports and games. Instead, all he could think was, 'they're watching me.' 'Everyone is watching me. What if I muck things up? What if it all goes wrong? What if—' and this was the question that haunted him, that made him sick to his stomach and left him lying awake all night '—what if I'm not the hero they all think I am?'

It got better. He got used to it. There are things in life that can't be changed. So when Harry came across one of those things, he adjusted. He learned to live with the looks, to laugh it off and focus on the mundane in his life. He learned to live as a normal boy, even with the Wizarding World watching. There were moments, of course; rough times when he felt overwhelmed by expectations. But he had Hermione and Ron. He always had his friends beside him, to ground him and remind him. The world might think of him as the Boy Who Lived, but really he was just a boy who lived with his horrible relatives, a boy who lived for his days at Hogwarts. He was Harry.

But if his tryst—he begged himself for a better, less word, but a tryst was what it was, and that was all he could call it—with Malfoy became common knowledge it would be the end. No more of the relative serenity he lived with. It had taken time for him to deal with everything from curious to worshipful stares. He doubted he would ever be able to cope with revulsion, horror and snickers. A few snickers here and there from the Slytherins weren't too bad. No one respectable put much stock in their opinions anyway. But from the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs? What about the Gryffindors? He didn't even try to imagine how his own house would treat a filthy, perverse traitor like him.

He reached the Fat Lady's portrait and leaned against the opposite wall. He needed a minute to compose himself, in case any other Gryffindors had come up before breakfast was over. He didn't want to go in there looking haggard; they would worry, and they would want to know what was wrong. And when he couldn't tell them, they would get suspicious. It was bad enough that Hermione was suspected him; she didn't need the investigative powers of Gryffindor house at her back. He shut his eyes and inhaled deeply.

"Taking a bit of a nap, darling?" Harry jerked upright, lost his balance, and was forced to windmill his arms in order to keep from falling. He looked in horror at Malfoy, who was grinning. "I must say, I knew Gryffindor wasn't the most luxurious of houses, but do they really make you sleep in the corridor? That's just—"

"What the _hell_ are you doing here?" Harry snarled as quietly as he could. He eyed the Fat Lady cautiously. She was still snoozing quietly, leaning against her frame.

"What? Aren't you glad to see me, darl—"

"Don't call me that! That's just, you--ugh!"

"Not one for endearments? You know, there are some who would say that says quite a bit about you and your problems with intimacy."

"Problems with--" Harry shut his eyes again. He was doing it again. He was letting Malfoy get under his skin. "Why are you here?"

"Well, I—"

"Don't be smarmy. Just tell me." Malfoy eyed him suspiciously, then shrugged.

"Alright. I came to have a word with you."

"A word with me?" Harry's voice dripped with disbelief, and he was momentarily proud of himself. Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"Yes, probably more than one, in fact. Contrary to whatever you think, there are fleeting moments when I'm not up to anything devious." Harry arched his eyebrows, putting on his best 'as-if' face. Malfoy shook his head critically. "Now, see, you're doing it all wrong. You have to—" He reached up to guide one of Harry's eyebrows and Harry jerked backwards without thinking. He felt suddenly that he should apologize, but it was too late. Whatever spark of tolerance that had lingered in Malfoy's light eyes disappeared. "As much as I abhor spending even one instant with you, a discussion has become necessary."

Harry--confused and lost as he was--had to pause to work out that sentence. Surely there were much simpler ways to say that? He realized that it was just another thing he'd learned about Draco Malfoy: his tendency to become formal when he was annoyed. That thought made him feel uncomfortable; it was the kind of thing that friends would know about each other.

"Why?"

"Well, _I_ had hoped that we might be finished with the whole sordid affair, but since _you_ can't seem to keep your eyes off me even in public," he trailed off into nasty silence. Harry looked away, embarrassed.

"We can't talk here. Breakfast is nearly over, there'll be people."

"Fine. Where does your infinite wisdom tell you we should talk?" Harry racked his brains for places that would be mostly abandoned.

"Astronomy Tower?" He offered. Malfoy gave him a look of flat incredulity. "What?"

"Potter, not even you could be that naïve." Harry looked at him blankly and Malfoy shook his head almost sadly. "All right, maybe you could."

"What's wrong with the Astronomy Tower?"

"Nothing's _wrong_ with it, per se."

"I don't--" Malfoy cut him off with a stare. Harry watched the other boy think. Malfoy's nose wrinkled when he was deep in thought. Harry smiled a little, then noticed that he had just found something about Malfoy endearing. He scowled quickly, furrowing his brow as deeply as he could. Think of Death Eaters. Think of prejudice, and cruelty and persecution. Don't think about how adorable that tiny pout is. Malfoy glanced over at him, and his look became questioning.

"Are you going to be ill? Not that I care. Your discomfort is, after all, my pleasure." Harry tried to intensify his glare, but he just went slightly cross-eyed. Malfoy gave him another strange look, then shook it off. "There's a classroom on the fourth floor, across from the statue of Elric the Uncleanly. It's usually empty by afternoon. We could meet there to hash this thing out."

"Fine. Sure. Alright."

"Would you like to add another affirmative?" Harry prickled, and imagined punching Malfoy squarely in the nose. That was pleasant enough, so he pictured pounding him into the floor. His plan backfired when his brain decided to give its own treacherous interpretation to "pound." He winced and looked away, trying to wipe the image from his eyes.

When he looked back, unsuccessful, Malfoy was giving him a look that clearly spelled out his intent to call St. Mungo's immediately.

"Don't look at me like that, I'm fine," Harry snapped.

"Of course you are." Harry narrowed his eyes. Draco narrowed his. The sound of not-so distant laughter and footsteps startled both of them.

"Go on," Harry looked feverishly from side to side, "get out of here!"

"Why don't you get out of here?" Draco sneered, suddenly determined to be contrary. Harry looked at him blankly.

"Because I live here."

"Oh." Draco's brow furrowed slightly. "Well." He was obviously searching for something scathing to say, but the approaching students were both a distraction and a deadline. He stormed off, leaving Harry to sigh and lean back against the wall.

"Oof!" He nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized he had leaned directly onto the Fat Lady.

**Author's Note: Well, that took a _long_ time to write. It's a bit shorter, and not as satisfying, but it's a bit of filler that was needed. Hopefully the next part will come faster, lengthier, and with exponentially more boylove. Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter IV**

**Draco eyed his wardrobe critically**. This would be one of the most important fashion decisions of his life. He was no stranger to the necessity of the perfect outfit for any given event; a lifetime of parties, dinners, and blood-rituals hosted and attended by the wizarding world's elite had taught him well the statements clothes make. The world he grew up in was one devoted to appearance. Perfection is attainable, every fiber of one's being had to announce; I am the ideal. A misplaced cuff was disastrous, anything awry was weakness. So when other boys made derisive comments about how he had filled not only his, but also Crabbe and Goyle's allotted wardrobe space, with apparel of all styles, he just shot them a superior smirk. Draco would never starve for choice, so he would never be forced to be improperly dressed for any occasion that might come up unexpectedly.

The trouble was he couldn't decide what the proper attire was. He had no experience, and no etiquette dictates, for a secret meeting with one's archnemesis who one had recently been known to snog occasionally. If he could just discern what the idea he wanted project was, then at least he'd have a starting point. He had no clue. Should he be cool, aloof and hardened? Part of him said that was the way to go; show Potter that he had zero interest in him, that he would not be allowing Potter's rampaging hormones to bother him again. Or should he make himself as attractive as possible, to better highlight to Potter what he would not be having at any point in the near, or distant, future?

He pulled out a deep forest green robe, the color of the massive pine trees of the Forbidden Forest, and slipped it on. It had silver (of course) embroidery decorating the cuffs and silver clasps all up the front. It was one of his favorite robes and part of him said he shouldn't waste it on Potter. But another, nasty part of him imagined Potter dumbstruck at his beauty and felt warmed. Conflicted, he surveyed himself in the mirror. The darker color did lend a certain luminescence to his pale skin and hair. He practiced a few facial expressions he would probably need to use during the course of the meeting: bored, horrified, doing-my-best-not-to-make-a-nasty-comment-oh-no-there-I-go, tired-of-your-rambling, disgusted, dubious, incredulous (the difference is in the eyebrows).

He couldn't decide. He looked wonderful in this robe; he was sure of that. Not that he didn't look wonderful in absolutely everything, he thought, treating himself to a debonair grin. But was it right? For some reason, it was very important to him that everything go as he planned. After contemplating his reflection for a few minutes, he finally surrendered and walked over to the door. He pulled it open and stuck his head out, scanning the common room. He spotted Pansy lounging in one corner. She and some of her friends were playing Exploding Snap on an unidentifiable first-year's bare back.

"Pansy!" She looked up from her game and, when she saw who was calling, stepped

over the unfortunate young student. Her shoes clattered on the black stone and she stopped a few feet away from the entrance to the boy's dorm.

"What?" She peered at him, twisting up her nose into a very unattractive way. He bit his lip and took in a deep breath, then pulled the door back further, revealing his whole self. _I can't believe I'm doing this. If my father ever heard…_

"What do you think of my outfit?" She looked surprised for a few moments then ran her eyes over him, scrutinizing his every inch. She smiled in a very not reassuring way that spoke of tremendously nasty thoughts.

"I love it," she purred, then turned on her heel and clacked back to her friends. Draco let the door swing closed as he pulled the robe off as quickly as possible. That certainly would not do. He sighed, deflating, and slipped the robe back amongst the others. He flipped sullenly through them, feeling the variety of fabrics slide past his fingers.

This was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. He had no reason to worry about this. This wasn't his mother, his father, his beloved (though complete barmy) Aunt Bella, or any of their high-evil-society friends. This was Harry Potter. Harry Potter who probably owned only two robes; last season's robes no less, both of which were doubtlessly battered. Potter who couldn't tell the difference between one of Madame Malkin's creations and an Alain Boublil original. Potter who wore muddy Quidditch boots at all hours of the day. Here Draco was, worried about his outfit for a meeting with a boy who wouldn't know fashion if it stole his glasses and wore them while singing a medley of Celestina Warbeck's greatest hits.

He was being foolish. He had established that. But his hands still insisted on stroking their way through his extensive wardrobe, searching tirelessly for the perfect match. Because even if Harry Potter would never realize the time and energy Draco spent on him, he still wanted to look nice for him. Now that was ridiculous. He had no reason to want to impress Potter. _Well,_ a bit of him whispered, _he _is_ a good kisser._

"Ugh," Draco said aloud, glancing at his reflection. He looked pathetic. Scrawny and insignificant and pale, more ghost than boy. He wished he was taller. He straightened, puffing his chest out. It didn't help. He just looked like a slip of a boy trying to make himself more impressive and failing miserably, which, in all fairness, he was. He thought, with a jealous scowl, of Potter. Potter with his broad shoulders and big hands, and Quidditch-muscled form, and stupid messy hair that fell just slightly into his eyes in that smoky, alluring way. His stomach twitched, a tiny tinge of warmth, and he quickly banished the image from his mind.

He was not going to dress up. He was not going to worry about this anymore. He was going to go and meet Potter and be done with it. Potter was not going to force him into driving himself to insanity. That was final.

Two hours later, Draco made his way out of the dorm and hurried across the common room, trying to avoid any interaction with his housemates. Unfortunately, just as he reached the wall that led back to the dungeon corridor, it slid open. Millicent Bulstrode hulked in the opening. There was no way Draco would be able to squeeze past her. He waited for her to lumber past, but she didn't move. She stood transfixed, peering at him. Her mouth worked.

"Malfoy," she said slowly, looking very much like a troll who has been surprised and whose slow troll brain is trying to work out what exactly is going on, "are you

wearing a black velvet robe with thigh-high dragon skin boots and nothing underneath?"

Draco fled back into the dormitory.

**Author's Note: Very brief chapter, I know. Sort of a little vignette? And…not as well edited as I'd hoped .;; However, I wanted to post something/anything to let everyone know: This story will not be updated for at least a month. I am participating in NaNoWriMo this year, so I won't have any time for fanfic. So, thank you for your patience…the boylove will recommence in December! (If you happen to be interested, I'm considering posting segments of the novel in my LJ (linked on my profile page).)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Harry sat on top of one of the tables in the quiet room** He swung his legs absentmindedly, trying not to think about why he was there. And that he was alone. When was Malfoy coming? They had agreed to meet here after lunch, and he was nearly twenty minutes late. What if he wasn't coming? What if he and his mates were laughing hysterically in the Slytherin common room right now, cackling at the immense stupidity of Harry Potter? What if he had been caught coming, and told someone the reason he was headed to the fourth floor? What if Hermione and Ron figured out that he had lied to them and came looking?

He felt a stab of guilt and bit his lip. He shouldn't have lied to them. But how could he not? He couldn't tell them the truth. He had no choice. They wouldn't understand. _You never did try, though_, that reliably nasty part of his brain hissed at him, _you should have just told Hermione when you had the chance, and been done with it._ _You couldn't have_, a far nicer part soothed, _you couldn't have told them. This isn't just your problem, it's Malfoy's, too._ His internal argument was quickly put aside when the boy in question entered the room.

"Hey," Harry said. Malfoy gave him a look. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Well, if it was nothing, why did you give me that look?"

"What look?" Harry did his best imitation of the look. "Oh, that look. No reason."

"No reason?" Harry tried out his "dubious" look again, to mixed success. Shutting the door gently behind him, Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"None at all. You don't have to analyze every facial twitch of mine, you know."

"I am not—" Malfoy held up his hands, and Harry fell silent, without knowing why. There was no reason for him to obey Malfoy's unspoken mandate; maybe it was just habit. Malfoy fussed with one of his sleeves for a few seconds, then brought his eyes back to Harry.

"What did you want to discuss?" Harry eyed him.

"Me? You're the one who wanted to meet." Malfoy rolled his eyes again, making Harry feel very stupid.

"Well, yes, I _suggested_ meeting. But you agreed; ergo there's something you'd like to talk about." _Of all the…_Harry almost growled aloud with frustration. Trust Malfoy to twist everything around, and make it his fault. Fine. He wasn't going to play Malfoy's little games today.

"I just wanted to—" he broke off. What did he want? _To make it go away_. But that couldn't happen. The kiss…it happened. He couldn't wish it away, and he couldn't magic it away, and he certainly couldn't talk it away. What could the two of them really accomplish here? Exchange a few insults, a few glares, but nothing would change. They would still have kissed. They would still be trapped in this awkward place between hatred and…whatever this was. Or, at least, Harry would. He had no idea how Malfoy felt about any of this. He stared at the other boy, until Malfoy was the one who bristled. He came forward, until he was only a few feet from Harry.

"Hello? Are you in there, Potter?"

"Hmm?" Malfoy sighed and rolled his eyes.

"If you have something to say Potter, get out with it. You're wasting my time. I have—"

"Oh, stuff it," Harry snorted dismissively. "As if you have better things to do." Malfoy looked like he wanted to respond, but instead settled on pouting instead. Harry continued watching him, but instead of glaring at the whole of Malfoy, his eyes suddenly focused, like a Muggle camera, on those pursed lips. It was…_No._ He couldn't think it, wouldn't think it, he didn't believe it, didn't think it. He certainly didn't, he couldn't, as if…_adorable._ He felt the side of his mouth twitch. God, he wanted to _smile_. Smile at Draco Malfoy and his pouty lips. It was disgusting, and demeaning, and sweet Merlin he looked appealing.

There was nothing either boy could do. One moment Harry was sitting on the desk and Malfoy was pouting at what he obviously thought was a safe distance. The next, Harry was on top of him. He wasn't sure when he had moved, or how he could have closed the gap that quickly, but thought was rapidly slipping away from his brain. The heat between them was palpable for a few seconds before Malfoy managed to raise his hands to Harry's chest and shove him solidly backward.

"_Honestly!_" Malfoy wiped furtively at his mouth with his robe and made an exaggerated gagging motion, sticking out his tongue and rolling his eyes back. "What is the _matter _with you?" And Harry was suddenly furious.

"It's not my fault! I can't help it! It's you, you standing there with your blasted little sexy pout. I just can't take it!" He was prepared to rant for several more minutes, but the way Malfoy was so gently biting his bottom lip stopped Harry short.

"You think my pout is sexy?" Harry searched him for mockery, for a trap stealthily laid into the words, but found nothing. He sighed and nodded.

"Yeah. Guess so." Malfoy was usually good at masking feelings he didn't want others to notice, but Harry saw pleasure that was almost shy flash across his face before he started scowling again.

"Well, that's no good. You really must stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Finding me irresistible." Malfoy stroked his hair with a flamboyant sigh. "I realize it is nigh impossible, and I do understand your helplessness in the face of my charms, but there's really no other way."

"You could stop being attractive," Harry snapped back. Malfoy shook his head so that his hair flopped artistically, and hit his melodramatic stride.

"Potter, would you ask that owls stop being feathered? That a wand stop being wooden? That the giant squid stop being—" he paused for a moment, unsure of how to complete his analogy—"inky?"

"S'pose not," Harry said, trying to keep his tone somber while his lips persisted in their quest to twist upwards. Malfoy shook his head sadly, but there was a happily devious light in his eyes.

"Then you should know better than to ask such a thing of me." Harry wanted to laugh, but he suddenly realized what was going on here. He was having a civil conversation with _Malfoy_. This wasn't arguing, or bickering, or even sniping. This was bantering. Cheerful, almost friendly, banter. Banter was not something to be exchanged with pure enemies, and that thought sobered Harry immediately.

"What are we going to do, Malfoy?" The sparkle in Malfoy's eyes died. He inhaled and straightened.

"About what, Potter?"

"Us," Harry had nothing but a truthful answer. "We can't just keep going on like this." It was the perfect opportunity for a quip, but shockingly, Malfoy didn't make a comment. He didn't say anything at all. He looked down at his pale hands as though they were particularly interesting today. Finally, he brought his eyes up to meet Harry's, and Harry was surprised how relieved he was that they were tired and resolved.

"It's not as though we…like each other, right?"

"Definitely." Harry was quick to agree.

"Which means this—this, thing, we have…it's just hormones and whatnot."

"Right."

"We're just going to have to show our hormones that there's nothing here." Malfoy was so earnest, it was scary. Harry had never seen the other boy act so unguarded.

"How do we do that?"

"Easy," was what Malfoy said, but the suspenseful pause while he took a deep breath made Harry think that the solution was anything but. "We have to kiss."

"_What?_" Malfoy's face twisted immediately, and Harry was almost thankful to see a familiar, derisive expression on the blonde's face.

"Don't be such a girl, Potter. It's not like I _want_ to have to touch you again, but would you rather keep having those…sensations?" Harry shook his head vehemently. "Alright then." Malfoy took a step forward, and Harry took an instinctive step backwards, the backs of his knees brushing the desk. Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Come on, Potter, unlike you, I'm not going to bite." Harry felt himself blush, but when Malfoy started forward again, he stayed his ground.

His heart was pounding madly. Dread, of course. Fear. Panic. Malfoy looked calm, and Harry envied him immensely. How could he approach so dispassionately, as though he were doing some everyday task like returning a book to the shelf? It wasn't fair. Now Malfoy was here, right in front of him. Because Harry was taller, he had to incline his head a little so that Malfoy could reach him. An instant before they met, Harry saw a quick flash of Malfoy's tongue, licking his lips. The knot of tension in Harry's stomach loosened slightly. Malfoy was just as nervous as he was. He had no time to think any other thoughts, because that was the moment their lips met.

The kiss held none of the hunger and pressure of their other kisses. It was hardly a kiss at all, by many standards. Only the slightest press of soft lips together. But it was electric. Harry started to lean forward, just as Malfoy leapt backwards, as though the power they both must have felt had been a physical spark.

"Right," Malfoy said, and he seemed twitchier than Harry had ever seen him. "Glad we got through that. No more worries, right? All over and done with. Over and done. Done. Right." He started to back away and stumbled slightly, bumping into a chair or two on his way to the door. He fumbled behind him for the handle, and when he found it he nearly re-closed the door on his leg, such was his hurry to get out of the room. Harry could only watch blankly.

**Author's Note: **Short chapter after a long wait, I know. I am shamed. But this scene was _very_ difficult for me to figure out, and tough to write. Ah well. Hopefully the next bits will come a little easier.


End file.
